To Find a Mountain

Chapter Forty

“Go! Go! Go!” Wolff yelled to his driver. A German soldier who had followed the armored convoy on foot, ran to Wolff’s car and piled onto the back.

The Germans were leaving Casalveri. The Allies were bombing their retreat, trying to kill as many of them as possible, probably for revenge after the bloody battle of Mt. Cassino.

Wolff barked a command at the driver of the second vehicle: a large two-track carrying at least twenty men. The driver of the two-track followed Wolff’s car and a man leapt from the back of the truck and directed the rest of the vehicles to follow. Men raced into the house and then back out, carrying the few meager belongings that were still in their possession. I watched as one truck went to the Ingrelli household where soldiers who were able to walk or run clambered aboard the waiting truck. The ones who couldn’t travel would be left behind, prisoners of war at the mercy of the Allies.

As men raced to and from, carrying rifles and packs, I saw Becher emerge from a car.

Colonel Wolff entered the house.

“Benedetta!” His eyes fell on me.

Iole and Emidio were huddled around my legs, hugging them, and Zizi Checcone was standing near the hearth with the laundry at her feet, uncertain as to what to do. I pushed the children toward Zizi Checcone as Wolff reached for me. There simply hadn’t been enough time to get them out of the house, especially with Wolff approaching the house’s only exit.

He put his arms around me and I flinched, half expecting to feel the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against my head. This was the moment we had both longed for and dreaded; the Germans were leaving, and the question was, what would they leave behind?

Colonel Wolff grabbed me and hugged me tightly. His medals pressed against me and poked my chest, the rough stubble of his unshaven face scraped my cheeks.

“Benedetta,” he said. “You must tell me what happened between you and Schlemmer. I want the truth.”

Becher appeared in the doorway and we both turned. Wolff looked back at me.

“I saw him following me and I ran,” I said. “I cut through a barn then circled around and went in the other direction. I never saw him again, I figured that I had tricked him.”

“She’s lying,” Becher said.

“I believe you,” Wolff said to me.

He turned to Becher.

“She is not lying. She has taken care of me and my men, and now this matter is of no importance. We must hurry.”

“No importance?” Becher asked, his face reddening. “Since when is the death of one of your men not important? Since when is there not enough time to avenge the murder of a German soldier?”

“Since the Americans will be coming over that mountain any minute now and the longer you delay us creates more time for the Allies to kill our soldiers!” Wolff was shouting. “If you really care about our men, you will forget this and go!”

“His death must be avenged!” Becher shouted. “These people must understand that Germans are their superiors!”

“Are you insane? We are losing the war! We are losing this country! Our leader has stretched us too thin, spent too much time murdering Jews!” Wolff moved toward Becher, his hands clenched in fists. “Look at you! Look at your arrogant German pride! This is what has been the death of us!”

Becher took a step back and for a moment I thought he was going to run outside and climb into a car. But he did not.

Instead, he coolly removed his pistol from the leather holster on his hip and faced Wolff.

“You are a traitor,” he said quietly.

And then he shot Wolff between the eyes.

Wolff fell backward, his large body crashed to the floor. His head landed at my feet. The soft gray hair, now coming apart in bloody chunks, was splattered on my shoes.

“The penalty for treason is death!” Becher yelled at the dead man on the floor.

“Traitor!” he said, and spat on Wolff.

The smell of gunpowder reeked in the room. Iole and Emidio were sobbing loudly against Zizi Checcone’s legs. The old woman watched, frozen.

“You,” he barked at Zizi Checcone. “Take those two and go stand against the barn! Now!”

Iole and Emidio were in tears as Zizi Checcone herded them out the door.

Becher crossed the room and stood before me. “See what you have done?” he said, then slapped me across the face. The blow knocked me to the ground and I tasted blood in my mouth.

I staggered to my feet and watched as Becher unholstered Wolff’s belt with the pistol still in the holster. His face was a mask of stone, unmoving, his eyes seemed to be frozen straight ahead, as if they were locked on a target.

“Gather all the food you have and bring it outside to me!” Becher said. “Then stand with the others against the barn! Now! Move!”

He walked out toward his car. In the distance, I saw Zizi Checcone standing with Iole and Emidio against the wall. They were watching the house. Zizi Checcone was crossing herself. She knew, as did I, that Becher wanted us lined up against the wall for one reason: to execute us.

I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed the last loaf of bread and a big hunk of cheese. It was all we had left. A small burlap sack, holding two small onions sat on the floor against the hearth. I emptied the bag of the onions, and then placed the cheese inside.

I opened the small cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and grabbed the hand grenade Emidio had brought home. It still felt incredibly heavy in my hands for its size and I hesitated for a split second, truly thought about what I was going to do. And then I moved.

I turned over the loaf of bread and scooped out a small hole, then tucked the hand grenade inside, lodging it in sideways with the grenade’s pin sticking out. I looped one finger through the grenade’s pin, then gathered cloth with my remaining fingers so that I could lift the bag.

I stood and ran outside toward Becher. He was walking back toward the house to find me when I emerged, running hard for him. Five feet from him, I pulled my finger from the inside of the bread and the hand grenade’s pin came with it. I let the ring slip from my finger and I grabbed the bag with my other hand.

I gave the bag to Becher, then turned and ran toward Zizi Checcone.

As I ran, I looked over my shoulder. Becher was five feet from his car. He stepped toward the vehicle and I saw it all happen so slowly. One step. Two steps. His head was raised, looking toward the top of the mountain from which the front edge of American tanks could be seen.

I heard nothing but silence. My feet pounded the ground, there was no air in my lungs. My head spun.

A third step. He was now next to the car, extending his arms to place the bag of bread and cheese on the front passenger seat next to Colonel Wolff’s pistol belt.

I turned and looked to Emidio and Iole. My eyes locked onto theirs. Their mouths were open as I ran.

A flash erupted from the mountain as a German artillery pounded at the American’s advance.

And then I was flying. The ground briefly moved away from me as I felt my feet fly up and my body rotated. Was I dead? Maybe I was flying to Heaven to see my mother, to be with her. Maybe at last someone would protect me. But then, I reasoned, I would already be dead and why would I need someone to protect me?

That was my last thought as the ground flew up at me, and I hit hard, the shock crushing my chest. I felt something trickle from my ears.

I rolled over and over and over. Brief flashes of a car on fire, of Zizi Checcone and Emidio and Iole on the ground, a sound deep and powerful washed over me, followed by darkness.